


Dominion & Surrender

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Authority, Cooperation, Dominance, Gen, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, very much depending on time and energy, this may have a second, far more explicit chapter, at which time I will upgrade its rating. This first chapter is clean enough for pretty much anyone, but the sequel suggests it wants to be much more explicit. We shall see.</p><p>As usual when I play with dom/sub, I'm being a bit subversive. This is not leather-whips-and-ropes, or ritual kneeling, or the usual kink tropes. Nor is it "who's the woman," though that is probably closer in most people's minds. It's "who gets to play the lead, and who follows," more than anything, and it's about how people can be both dominant AND submissive, depending on a lot of different variables. </p><p>But it's also just our two boys finding yet another way to each other. Have fun.</p><p>Update: second chapter added, rating upgraded to "explicit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dominion

Mycroft Holmes, the elite of the espionage world knew, was a very dominant man. Powerful. Controlling. In command. He ran his secret department with precision, order, and, most of all, imperious authority. His subordinates knew it. His allies knew it. His enemies knew it.

Sherlock and John and Mary Watson knew it. Mrs. Hudson knew it. Molly Hooper, after one brief, terrifying stint as “freelance spy” knew it. And, yes—Greg Lestrade knew it.

No one dealing with Mycroft professionally could fail to know it. As the ever-observant Anthea once said, the general opinion was that even God asked “How high?” when Mycroft snapped, “Frog.”

When Greg first decided he would quite like to know Mycroft in a less professional setting, he took that into account. It was frustrating—he found himself sympathizing with women in a way he never had previously. It was challenging to get MI6’s Stone Heart to initiate a…private…relationship. Not easy. Not at all. This was the man Sherlock assured Greg lived and would probably die by the principle that caring was not an advantage. Sherlock also hinted that such sex life as Mycroft had was only as much as could be cryogenically frozen and reconstituted with a cuppa hot water from the electric tea kettle.

Greg could not for the life of him figure out how to sort it all out. He managed a very wary, low-volume flirtatious manner—but it was quite wary, and as often as not Mycroft seemed not to notice. When he did notice he shied away. Greg considered the techniques of famous courtesans—but could neither see himself unrolled from a vast carpet into glorious Egyptian allure nor snapping his thong at Mycroft’s “presidential” self. Had he done so he would have expected a sharp reprimand and quite possibly an end to his secondment with MI6. Bringing in boxes of homemade brownies seemed likely to work only if he doped them heavily with hash—and he did not want to know what the long-term aftermath would be like. He gave brief consideration to the notion long cherished by women of a certain age that a new wardrobe, a trip to the salon, and a few weeks at a spa would turn the trick…but by the end of that thought he was coughing up his pint in his favorite local and weeping tears of hysteria.

No. No, and again, no.

He went his limit. He made an effort. He invited Mycroft out often enough, with enough ingenuity, as to actually have meals together turn into a reasonably regular thing. He lured the man to a concert or two. He chose dim, candle-lit little jazz clubs and made eyes at the other man through the smoke of their cigarettes.

He considered dating other men and sending Mycroft pictures, with the caption “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it,” typed in boldface underneath. Granted, it would be both bold and crass, but on the upside it would be very hard to mistake the underlying message.

Puppy eyes failed him. Lip-licking, likewise. He changed colognes several times, with no apparent improvement in his attraction ratings—except for the one that Mycroft proved radically allergic to.

Eventually he gave up. He wasn’t a natural wee little thing in any case, and the effort to try to leave Mycroft with plenty of dominant authoritarian room was wearing him out. Lestrade was a man who ran his own damned Met team, for God’s sake. He was the man who could—far better than Mycroft—snap Sherlock into line when he went wandering around like a drunken sailor through crime sites and witness interviews. He was tough enough to scowl even John Watson into some semblance of order, which was saying something, as John much preferred disorder, when it came down to it.

Enough was enough. Lestrade quit. Mycroft was clever, kind, brilliant, and, to Lestrade, enormously attractive. He was not, however, sufficiently so to allow the DI to hold to a permanent life of failed subordination. It just was not a going thing. After nearly a year of at least making an attempt, Lestrade gave up, reconciling himself to a limited friendship over chops and chips… So it goes.

And, indeed, so it went for some time. The two men got along well. They enjoyed each other’s company. If, when hands brushed, neither then moved to entangle fingers, what of it? Some things were not meant to happen. Just as when John Watson proclaimed firmly and without question that he was not gay, friendship could endure…even thrive.

Lestrade occasionally, in privacy, allowed himself to think of the potential pleasure of exploring long limbs, a lovely giraffe neck, of kissing smiles onto a sober face, well. These things were no one’s business but his own.

Thus it was—and it seemed as though thus would it ever be. So:

“Hey, Holmes—dinner tonight?”

Mycroft Holmes looked over the rim of his reading glasses, and arched his brows high. “I’m afraid things have been rather tense for me lately. Brexit is not going to be managed easily…and there’s no one, from any nation of the EU, on any tier of the British government, or at any level of British society, who is planning on being pleased with any outcome we manage to generate. I doubt I would be good company.”

“Times like that you need a pint and a pal to shoot a few rounds of darts with, mate.”

Mycroft gave him a hollow-eyed look, and said, in his driest voice. “I am no one’s mate—nor fit for it in any sense of the word. Thank you, Inspector, but better I should spare you.”

Lestrade growled, feeling irked. Bad enough Mycroft was too difficult prey to seduce. Did he have to be too difficult to befriend, too?  “Not sparin’ me, Mike. It’s you who’s duckin’ out and avoiding a bit of a break.”

“I am not avoiding anything, Sherl…Inspector.” Mycroft’s voice had taken on a high, dismissive tone, and he was clearly rattled when he realized he’d almost used Sherlock’s name, not Lestrade’s. Lestrade, however, laughed.

“Right. Obviously over-extended, if your reflexes have you calling me Sherlock. You need a bit of time off, you clot.  Nice fatty rib-eye. Green salad oozing with some kind of dressing you won’t let yourself eat. Treacle tart for afters. Laugh a bit. Unbutton that weskit of yours and take off your tie. Roll your sleeves up. A man needs to let go sometimes, Holmes.”

Mycroft sniffed and demonstrated his very best Victorian posture. “I hardly think the response to national catastrophe is a pint of beer and a rib-eye steak, Inspector.”

“You’re not thinking at all. You’re running on vapors.”

“I most certainly am not.” Mycroft stood, logged off his computer, and began closing down his office for the night. “I am behaving responsibly in all respects, up to and including maintaining regular habits—such as leaving my office at a rational hour, eating a superb meal at the Diogenes, and toddling across the way to my flat for an early bed time.” He locked his laptop away in a wall safe intended for just that function—with explosives that would go off in the face of any idiot fool enough to try to break in without the layers of retina scan, finger-print, and password protections in place to keep vandals and spies out. He stood and collected his jacket from the back of his chair, then gestured dismissively, shooing Lestrade toward the door. “Now, go on. Off with you. Behave like a bibulous bar-fly if you wish. Far be it from me to criticize. I, however, am planning a rational evening for a responsible member of the Civil Service in these difficult times.” He swanned out from behind his desk, chin up, nose in the air, long legs conveying his complete control and dominance in this, his office kingdom.

Lestrade snapped. He gave a long, rude raspberry. “Come off it, Mike. Really? _REALLY?_ You’re tired, you’re cranky, and if you were any more sarky I’d mistake you for your brat of a brother.” His eyes narrowed, and he caught the loose fabric of Mycroft’s jacket sleeve, and tugged once, hard. “Cut it the hell out, or I’ll do what I did with Sherlock when he first got out of line—turn you over my knee and paddle your arse till it glows in the dark.”

Mycroft froze, staring. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re overworking yourself and making idiot excuses for not dealing with it. You don’t have to go out with me, but you damned well better give me a better answer than ‘off to the Diogenes and then spit-spot and off to bed.’”

Mycroft’s small eyes narrowed down to slits. His lips tightened. “Says who?” His body was tense—quivering with alert energy.

“Says me.” Lestrade jutted his chin and rose.

He knew he was shorter than Mycroft. It was one of those things—two inches mattered. But he also knew how to walk a beat, break up a bar fight, sort a domestic, grapple a purse snatcher into the back of a panda car, and convince a drugged and desperate Sherlock Holmes to "put the broken bottle down and let the nice policeman get you to the A&E…or else.” He not only stood his ground, he ponied his way forward like a man shoving his way up to a bar at the end of a long, hard day.

Mycroft blinked—and stepped back, eyes wide. “Lestrade…” His voice was suddenly uncertain.

“No. You’re listening to me, you berk. You need a night off. It don’t have to be wi’ me. Hell, call in Sherlock and the Watsons, and I’ll look after the babe for them for the night, if that’s what suits you. But take a night off.”

Mycroft hovered, suddenly indecisive, a worried furrow between his brows. “I…” He glanced away. “Not Sherlock. Never Sherlock when…”

“When?”

Mycroft looked at his toes. “When I feel this battered.” His voice was soft, no longer imperious or authoritative. “You’re right, I’m afraid. I’m rather at the end of my tether. But—I don’t think I could endure a pub or a chop house. I honestly don’t.” There was a slight whine in his voice.

Too worn down, Lestrade thought, tut-tutting in thought, if not in actual expressed sound. Holmeses. Overdid it every time. “All right. So you’re going to come wi’ me to Chinese, order some salty, sticky food, an’ go back to yours or mine and eat there. We’ll drink monster-big mugs of tea, and then I’ll be on my way and you can have a nice shower and a tuck-in. But first you’ll  call that assistant of yours and have your morning cleared so you can sleep late.”

Mycroft looked at him, a sudden expression of exasperation and deep fondness glowing from his usually cool eyes. “You’re a terrible mother hen. Bossy? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Your brother taught me the hard way—Holmeses need looking after.” Without thinking he put a hand to the small of Mycroft’s back and guided him toward the office door. “Call your driver and tell him we’re going to want to be taken around to the Chrystanthemum Palace. Then pull up their menu on your phone and we’ll decide what to order on the way over.”

Mycroft nodded, cooperatively, and did as he was asked. As he did he eased slightly closer, leaning against Lestrade’s guiding hand, edging closer to his strong arm.

Lestrade, suddenly alert, blinked.

Blimey.

Bugger…

He glanced warily over at Holmes. “I ought to stay over the night to make sure you sleep properly,” he said, growling like a grumpy bear. “I don’t trust you not to get right to work again if I leave before you’re out cold.”

Mycroft gave him a side-eyed glance—hesitant, shy—but also, Lestrade would swear, flirtatious. Just a bit…

“Should we stop over at mine and pick up my joggers and my toothbrush?”

Mycroft, looking quite innocent, said, “Whatever you’d prefer, Inspector. If you like, I’ve got spare pajamas and toiletries on hand. One never knows when the Danish ambassador is going to pass out at a Foreign Office bash and need to sleep over. I am equipped for anything.”

Lestrade’s heart gave a solid jounce. He risked slipping his hand further around, until his arm was around Mycroft’s back, and his fingers clinging to his waist. He tugged the man closer still, and breathed, “Anything, Mr. Holmes?” He blew softly, ruffling the hairs behind Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft shivered, and looked away, and tried to pull away, drawing his dignity around him with a near-audible snap. “I… Inspector, I don’t know what you think I’m agreeing to, but…”

Lestrade, though, had finally caught on. He gripped more firmly. “You’re not agreeing to anything you don’t want to. But you are agreeing to dinner and rest…even if I have to drop you at your flat and stand guard for the next twenty-four hours.” He used his best copper voice, the one that invited no arguments. “Come on. We pick dinner, and go on from there.” He pointedly failed to remove his arm from Mycroft’s waist. Instead he walked easily, steadily beside his friend, matching him stride for stride and conveying his own authority—his own control.

For several steps Mycroft remained tense and uneasy. Then, with a sigh, he relaxed, leaning against his friend again. “I know. I—I’m not good at letting go.”

The doors of the lift swished open. Lestrade, smiling, guided Mycroft in, punched the lobby, and settled back. The turn to face the doors meant his other arm had to wrap around Mycroft, this time high, around his shoulders, pulling him near. He felt the other man relax into him…at ease. He risked a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s temple. Wide eyes met his—then Mycroft blushed and looked away, but did not withdraw.

Lestrade smiled. He had it, now. It all made sense.

Greg Lestrade, the elite of the espionage community and the Met police force knew, was a very dominant man. Powerful. Controlling. In command…

…and Mycroft Holmes liked him like that.


	2. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the follow-up. Yes. I was in the mood. I am also procrastinating. But it was such fun procrastination...

Mycroft moved in a fever whirl of feelings—unexpected, alien feelings. (Exciting, thrilling feelings…erotic feelings…) He navigated his body out of the office, through his department, down the lift, out through the lobby, and to his car. Every step of the way Lestrade was there beside him, an arm around his shoulders in a gesture that could be brotherly, or merely friendly—but which was not.

Not to Mycroft.

Oh, God, please, let it not be so to Greg, either. He didn’t think he could scramble back from the misstep if he were wrong about intent. Not tonight. Not when he was tired, and over-extended, and out of sorts, and worst of all, wide open and raw for reasons he could not name or command. Please let Greg mean what Mycroft thought he meant.

He slid into the car, deducing as hard as he could—and knowing he was just that bit too tired, too off-kilter to deduce reliably. And, yet…

Every gesture Greg made seemed to announce, “This man is mine. Trespass at your own risk.” Every touch seemed to proclaim an interest in Mycroft Holmes that went beyond a pint at the pub and a night of professional talk. It should have horrified him. Somewhere inside Mycroft’s adult, professional, responsible self was horrified, screaming advice from exile in the back of his head. That Mycroft wasn’t in charge right now—and was in grave danger of being gagged and silenced entirely for the night.

Mycroft forced himself to keep his attention on his mobile screen, where the menu of the Chrysanthemum Palace glowed in the dark car.

“General Tso’s?” he asked.

“Whatever you want. Crispy duck for me. Country-fried aubergine. They have a decent tossed salad, too—ginger-lemon dressing. That. That’s wha’ I want.” The way he pressed close, though, arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, nose nuzzling against his neck, suggested he had other, more immediate desires.

Mycroft did, too—and didn’t know how to ask for them. He wasn’t good at asking. Asking took finesse, delicacy, and while he’d learned to simulate those in diplomatic situations, he was less effective in personal encounters. He shivered, and frowned at the little glowing screen, and said, “Maybe--beef sticks. Pea pods and mushrooms. A small lo mein…” His mouth watered, but he barely noticed—two hungers shared one body, and only the desire for the man pressed close fully registered.

It felt so good, he thought. It felt so good to be bossed about so fondly. It felt so good when Greg put his arm around him and took over, guiding him, sheltering him, possessing him. His voice growled and rumbled, a thunder sweetened by the rich Estuary tones of the educated modern professional “Cockney,” a breed apart from the lower-class tradesmen, hauliers, carters, dock workers and dodgers of Victoria’s day. His voice suggested both the grit of the streets and the intelligence of the scholar at the same time—and most of all screamed strength and confidence to Mycroft’s Oxbridge ears. His body was strong—strong from chasing criminals down London streets. Strong from weekends given over to football with his amateur team. Strong from Met combat training, and from regular workouts. He felt like warm brick pressed against Mycroft’s side, and Mycroft sank against him like a ginger cat melting into the sun-warmed red brick wall of a suburban garden.

He wanted, and could not ask…

Not tonight, and the nights he could ask it would not matter the same way.

Together they bought their takeaway. Together they rode in silence to Mycroft’s Pall Mall flat. Together they went through the lobby, up the lift, down the corridor, and through the door of the flat—with a clearance card or a security check needed for each stage.

Lestrade carried the take-away, the big carrier bag swinging under his fist. It smelled wonderful.

Mycroft didn’t want to eat a bite. Not yet. Not now…

He flicked on the living room light, and gestured to the table in the dining area and to the half-lit kitchen beyond. “We can eat at the dining table or in the kitchen.”

Lestrade shot him a look. Saying nothing he strode into the kitchen, turned on his heel, and found the oven. He spun the dial to the “warm” setting, and shoved the entire bag in.

Mycroft, coming up behind, blinked. “Lestrade?”

“Greg. And we can eat it later.” Greg’s eyes met Mycroft’s.

Such a rich, dark brown…and glowing with desire. Mycroft found his heart thundering, his prick hardening just taking it in. Greg desired him.

Greg was impatient with it—impetuous.  He paced his way up to Mycroft, slid his hands up his arms—then down, tangling their fingers. His chest butted up against Mycroft’s, and he kept moving, forcing the other man to shuffle—back, and back, another step and another, until the sleek wall of the kitchen pressed hard against Mycroft’s shoulders and bum. Out of space to retreat, Mycroft cut off a mewling whimper, husking, “Inspector, what are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.” Lestrade pressed his face against Mycroft’s neck, snuffling and butting softly, like a huge, friendly cat. He hummed and sighed pleasure. “Mmmmm….good. That’s it, sweetheart…” He placed tiny, nipping kisses at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. Then he slid his hands, tangled with Mycroft’s, into the small of Mycroft’s back. He slipped his hands free, then pushed in close, heavy, pinning Mycroft’s hands behind his own back. His own hands rose high, and cradled Mycroft’s jaw, and he drew the other man’s head down, and whispered in his ear…

“I think I know what you want, sweetheart. I think you want it hard, and hot, and fast, and I think you want me to take it, not beg you to give it. But I could be wrong. Been wrong before in my life. So—tell you what. Red, yellow, green—nothing you don’t want. I won’t do a thing if you don’t want it. But I’m not going to make you beg—and I’m not planning on begging either. Gonna take us both right out of ourselves…”

It was like being caught in a flash-flood. The feelings rushed and poured, a torrent, a cascade, a gully-washer… Relief—oh, God, the relief. No asking. No explaining. No shy, uncertain attempts to hint without flat out giving instructions. And desire… He felt his body change, soften, welcome his lover.

“Yes…”

“Here? Bedroom? Got any toys you want?”

“You…”

“I gonna show up with the clap or AIDs if I go wi’out a Johnnie?”

“Will I?”

“No.”

“Then we’re both good.”

Greg grunted softly, then slid his hands down, grabbed Mycroft’s lapels, and without asking began stripping him out of his suit. His tie was untied, and draped easily around Lestrade’s neck with a mutter, “May be useful later…” that shook Mycroft to the core. Then jacket, waistcoat, and shirt were all rolled back, and back, over Mycroft’s shoulders and down his arms—and then twisted in a tight knob that was going to do the clothing no good—but which pinned his hands securely, so that Lestrade’s weight and Mycroft’s willing cooperation were no longer the only things securing the taller man.

“Trapped,” Lestrade growled, and proceeded to make free with the body that stood pinned in front of him. He nipped Mycroft’s neck, lipped his collar bones, then pinched both nipples, firm, then tight, then tighter, until Mycroft moaned.

“Yellow?” Greg asked.

“Green. Green…” Mycroft gasped. God, yes, green—he loved it. He felt free, desired, shattered with his own need, ravished by Greg’s attention. Taken—on a night when he could think of nothing more glorious than for Greg Lestrade to take him and make him his own, for a night, if not forever.

Greg seemed to hear the desire—he certainly heard the color code. He pinched harder, and twisted Mycroft’s nipples lightly. “Pain—like it a lot, or a little?”

“Little. Too much takes me out of it. This, though—gets better the hotter I get.”

Greg eased down, then nipped one tiny nub sharply. Mycroft squealed, and squirmed—but gasped “Green. Oh, God, green…”

He was becoming more and more confident that Greg had his range tonight—that he was not going to have to break his fragile mood with instructions, or take over the progression of events, even through subtle subversion of his own surrender. And, oh, God, it was surrender—willing, wanton surrender. Greg had promised to take him, and he wanted to be taken. He wanted to be overpowered, tonight.

Greg had unfastened Mycroft’s trousers, now, managing the flies without bothering to look down. His hands slid into Mycroft’s boxers, and cradled his bum. “That’s my boy. That’s my sweetheart. God, you’re a nice handful.” He cupped and squeezed, then flexed his wrists and pushed the pants and trousers down, and down. They sloughed off, slowly descending Mycroft’s long legs. “Kick your shoes and socks off, pet.”

Mycroft danced obedience, and soon was barefoot and entirely naked, but for the jacket-bundle that still bound his hands in place. Lestrade reached back, then, and eased the bundle off—but instantly replaced it with Mycroft’s tie. Mycroft could feel him tying the heavy silk in place—then he felt the ends tucked into his palms.

“You can get loose when you want to, pet. If you want to… Meanwhile…” He slipped his hands over Mycroft’s thighs-up and down, trailing fingertips through the sleek hair of his thighs. His fingers danced spider dances on the heavy arch of muscle at the front, down the rippled fold between muscles at the side, and then, tickle-prickle, teasing flutters up the inner thigh to the crotch, Mycroft whimpering and squirming the whole time. “That’s my boy. You just wiggle like that, and see if I don’t make you a happy baby.”

Mycroft was drunk with it. The only thing he found himself wishing for was a gag, so he didn’t even have to think about words.

Green. Green-green-green, it was all green, and he didn’t want it to end. He cried out when Greg gathered up Mycroft’s legs and drew them up around his waist.

“Lock your heels….”

He did. He visualized himself in his mind’s eye: stark naked, miles of white skin, captured by his conqueror—booty.  Plunder. Greg’s. His hair all rucked out of place. His body bound for Greg’s pleasure. His body cooperating with its own submission…

His arsehole was pulsing, already excited at the thought of penetration. He knew what he wanted—hard, quick, only such lubrication as Greg could easily find, and not too much time spent applying it. Mycroft wanted that first thrust to hurt; then to feel the slow, tidal reversal of his body’s expectations, as his arse accepted a drive in the wrong direction, a fullness going in, not out. Thinking about it, he was hard—harder than he could recall being in years. He twisted and rocked, trying to gain friction as his cock rubbed against Lestrade’s belly.

“No.” Lestrade gripped Mycroft’s hips so hard that Mycroft knew there would be leopard-spot bruises tomorrow. “Be still. I choose.”

Mycroft gave a needy, longing whine, and tried again, pushing the limits…and was rewarded with a sharp, painful smack across one bum cheek that sent his prick throbbing. “Behave.”

Mycroft gave a wicked, hungry laugh. “Make me…”

He found himself carried from the kitchen wall to the kitchen table—and, with a snake-fast, sudden twist he found himself bent over the table, belly against the decorative enamel table-top, feeling the chill of the steel beneath. One hand pinned the small of his back, shoving his hands to one side. The other came down with a swift strike.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

Slow, deliberate, hard as hell, unsparing. Mycroft gasped, and howled—and loved it.

“Yellow?” Lestrade growled.

“Green!  Oh, God, Green!”

The hand landed again, and again, and Mycroft wept with it, sobbed into it, spread his legs to give Greg more access to his inner thighs, to the tender skin beneath the apple of his cheeks.

“Green…oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh bugger.”

He almost thought Greg would make him ride the spanking to the inevitable climax. Instead he eased off slowly, leaving Mycroft twitching his bum, trying to get more—something. More anything.

Mycroft felt Greg moving, then, looking for something. After a second he found what he wanted, and Mycroft heard the drag of the butter dish over the table. A second later fingers slid between his cheeks and found his butt-hole. They caressed, explored.

Mycroft could feel the slick, melting flow of the dab of butter, lubricating Greg’s fingers, slicking Mycroft’s bum. His arse was alight, now, with pleasure and the slow, burning delight of past pain.  He was unable to keep himself from whining and wriggling and seeking out that contact.

Greg was deviously good, milking it, stretching it out. “You like that, sweetheart?”

“Yes…”

Fingers poked, slid in, drew wide. “This what you wanted tonight?”

“Yes.” He had wanted it, and had no ability to ask for it. The embarrassment would have silenced him. The sense of vulnerable behavior would have silenced him. The fear of having to narrate his own ravishment would have silenced him. “Yes. Take me, Greg. Make me.”

Greg hummed, and continued his slow, easy exploration. “In my own time.” His fingers opened Mycroft up, caressed him, drifted down his perineum to his balls. He cradled the heavy load, stopping their pendulum swing. He palmed them, tickled them. “Mine,” he said, softly. “You’re mine, tonight, lover.”

“Yes…”

“How do you want it?”

“Hard. Fast.”

“Front? Back? Kneeling? Lying down?”

“Any—no. Take me like this.” Pinned naked to the kitchen table, the cold enamel and metal chilling his tits, his hands secured with his own tie, his face pressed against the smooth surface below him. From behind, like a captive. “Like this. Make me yours.”

“Rough?”

“Rough-ish.”

He heard Greg give a small, soft chuckle. Then he heard the zip of his flies, and realized that Greg was still fully dressed. The power imbalance swept through him, rattling his libido and shaking his bones.

“Oh, God. Take me hard…”

One thrust. Hard. Mycroft’s world lit up in pain as his arse attempted to cope with things moving the wrong way entirely. He howled, a mix of pleasure and agony, then shouted, “Yellow!”

Greg froze, fully embedded, but unmoving.

The return was heaven. Mycroft felt the muscles reverse fields, shift alignment, and the pain melted into a blissful, too-stretched pleasure. It still hurt a bit—tight skin, muscles still slightly surprised. But he wasn’t a virgin and he knew how to guide his own body in this. “Now,” he sighed on a doped, ravished exhale. “Now. Hard. Hard…”

Greg gave a glorious, inspiring imitation of a jackhammer, slamming in hard enough to wake little residual prickles of both pain and pleasure, stretching skin and muscle, filling Mycroft up, forcing friction on him. “Like this?”

“Yes. God, yes….” He felt contained, captured, owned—held, kept safe, pleasured.  The conflict of dominance and submission didn’t exist in this—it was something they accomplished together, but it freed him of the constant need to decide, and decide again, and again, and guide, and manipulate, and try to pretend he wasn’t making everything happen. Sex sometimes felt like masturbation with a sock puppet. This felt like surrender to his own longing—and like being made love to by a genius, who understood and needed no one to explain, and explain, and explain again.

He surfed the pleasure—rode it, high on the crest, insane with the frothing delight, the freedom, the captivity, the contrasts that made it work.

“Getting close, sweetheart. You want help going over the top?”

His hands were tied, or he’d have added the one last bit of stimulus himself. Instead he said only, “Bit of a reach around?”

Greg’s hand snaked to Mycroft’s cock, gripped tight, pulled—and Mycroft spilled, screaming his delight, hips bruising themselves against the lip of the table as he thrashed out his climax—and Greg pounded his own orgasm home.

Then they lay panting together, Mycroft lying face-down on the table, Greg pressing him into the enameled steel, his jacket buttons denting the pale, freckled skin of Mycroft’s back. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, and pressed his face into the space between the wings of his shoulder blades. “Oh, God, lover, that was good. Thank you.”

Mycroft, shivering with sudden recognition of the cool air on sweat, said, huskily, “No. Thank you. That was—incredible. How did you know?”

Greg didn’t make him explain. He said, “Know my Holmeses. Carry the world on your shoulders as if no one else could—but, face it, that can be a turnoff when it comes to sex, yeah? Don’t always want to be sending memos to your lover, ‘Re: stimulation of the genitalia, and so on, and so on.’”

Mycroft laughed, unwilling to heave his lover off his back yet. “Indeed. Well-spotted, you!”

“I’m clever, I am. Best at the Met.” Greg combined smug pride and laughter, mocking himself gently while preening at the same time. “Not too shabby, yeah?”

“Not shabby in the least. Do you ever need the favor in return?”

“Hell, yeah. Slightly different triggers. We’ll talk.”

Mycroft shivered—a whole-body shudder that made Greg hold him close and nuzzle him back into calm. “We will?” Uncertainty shook him. “We never came down this path before, in all our years together.”

“Were mitigating factors,” Greg said, chuckling. “My wife. Your brother. Moriarty. National catastrophes. An’ neither of us is simple, yeah? We got here. That’s what matters.” He stood, then, and cold air swept over Mycroft’s back. He untied Mycroft’s hands, and then helped him up. “Let’s scoot off for a shower, then eat. Got crispy duck going mushy on me in the oven.”

“Wash your hands, then open the bag and put the duck on a plate to dry-heat. It will revive,” Mycroft said. “Then meet me in the shower. It’s just down the hall.”

They looked in each other’s eyes. They smiled. Suddenly bashful, Greg said, “You really did like?”

“I really did.” He thought of how safe, how cared for, how free he’d felt pinned under Lestrade’s strong body. How glorious he’d found each stage of his own surrender. “I really did,” he said again.

Greg grinned. “Me, too.” And with that, something was resolved, and he grinned. “You’re mine, Mycroft Holmes. Mine. Yeah?”

Mycroft blushed, but nodded. “Yours. And you are mine.”

“Only when I’m feeling bottomish,” Greg chuckled…and Mycroft, with a laugh, headed for his shower.

 

 

 

 


End file.
